Saturday, June 12, 2010

The wicked root becomes the clock which in turnDelights the flighted eye.To win love is to be lost at seaAnd know the comfort of allThose troubled seabirds-You are their subjectThey your kings.Afflicted is the heart in its own darkHourWhenIn the refuge of sin inThe practice of carrying yourYearning to the altaryou crush the care of god.

The archangels hear confessionIn the voices of nature and yet they are helpless toPrevent exasperating timeThey become wicked themselves andUse their power to pierce theIlluminated eye of inconstant love.